Boom Town

I’ve lost consciousness due to heatstroke only once in my life, so I wouldn’t let an inconvenience like 95-degree weather stop me from donning a heavy foam costume and fulfilling my duties as Boomer the Cannon at a recent major league lacrosse game between the Boston Cannons and the Long Island Lizards. The show must go on: That’s my mantra whenever I agree to become an anthropomorphic piece of artillery at a professional lacrosse game.

I arrive at Cawley Stadium in Lowell and make my way to the dressing room, where Boomer waits to be brought to life. The Boomer getup includes heavy red pants, silver stockings, a red shirt-type thing that isn’t much more than sleeves, gloves that feature only three bulbous fingers, enormous foam shoes and a huge, hard foam body shaped like a cannon, complete with wheels. The perfect outfit for a scorching summer day.

Luckily I have Jim Dwyer, the regular man behind the cannon, to acquaint me with the typical duties and hazards of livin’ la vida Boomer. “The body is open at the top, which is both a blessing and a curse,” says Dwyer. “If you get too close to the stands, people might throw stuff down on your head. I’ll help you watch out for little kids, because you look out the eyebrows of the face and you can’t see anything directly in front of you. And be aware that teenage boys will probably try to hug you. For some reason they assume that there’s a girl inside the costume.” Great. And I don’t even get to make them take me to the prom for my troubles.

We exit the dressing room and head directly for a birthday party under a nearby tent. “Who wants an autograph from Boomer?” Dwyer asks the kids. He somehow gets a marker into my heavily padded, three-fingered paw and hands me a T-shirt to sign, but I can’t get my arms out far enough in front of me to see what I’m doing. The shirt’s young owner, however, is sufficiently distant for me to witness the look of disappointment on his face when he’s presented with Boomer’s expressionist handwriting. “I’m sorry that my signature looks like a skid mark,” I want to tell him, but I take the Mascot Code of Silence seriously. I’d sooner fire a clown out my head than speak.

Moving on, Boomer heads to the main gate to meet fans on their way into the stadium. I realize at this point that communicating with only your arms, hands and legs is extremely difficult. I find myself repetitively waving and giving the thumbs up. When I try to express frustration, as when the Lizards score a goal, my angry foot-stomping is undermined by the dopey grin permanently plastered across my face. Boomer looks a few ounces short of a full load of gunpowder, if you know what I mean.

Walking past the stands, I make at least two small children cry, which I suppose is understandable. A dancing purple dinosaur is one thing; a dancing piece of weaponry brandishing a lacrosse stick is quite another.

Most of the older kids are friendly, and many pictures are taken, but one lovable little scamp severely tests the Mascot Code of Silence, as well as the Mascot Code of Not Smacking Little Kids Even When They Richly Deserve It. “My Dad says that those costumes are a rip-off, because they’re really hot inside,” Billy Urchin informs me. By this time, I’m so hot that the two dueling lacrosse teams are intermittently morphing into centaurs playing jai alai against the Jackson 5, and my eyes burn from the river of sweat that I’m unable to wipe away. But I try to communicate that I’m not hot at all, waving my hand in a “What, me, hot? Naaah,” gesture. Billy will have to learn sooner or later that his Dad is a goddamn idiot who doesn’t know crap about mascot costumes. But little Billy reiterates his Dad’s opinion on mascot heat-retention properties, along with many other absolute truths put forth by his Dad, who is apparently an omniscient deity. Just as I am ready to put this kid in a full nelson and throw him over the railing, Dwyer saves me, saying, “I think Boomer says he could take your Dad. OK, see you later, kids.”

By the end of the game, I don’t understand lacrosse any better, but I do have a newfound appreciation for the men and women inside our cannons and sausages. So next time you see Boomer the Cannon or Wally the Green Monster or Lucky the Leprechaun, pour a little cold beer into their eyebrows. Trust me, they’ll thank you. ∂